


Daily Bread

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A day in the life of the recovery of Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Established Relationship, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam-Centric, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5171780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam braced for the worst: car accident, explosion, alien invasion — life with Steve was weird sometimes. But instead the cop informed him that they’d had 911 calls about an attack at a grocery store, and there were unconfirmed reports that Captain America was involved in the fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daily Bread

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for discussion of PTSD and description of panic attacks.

“I was in Canada, of all places,” Jim began. “Took my mom to visit her sister. Her church was having a quilting bee.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I know, I know. Lame, right?”

“Nothing lame about spending time with your family,” Sam said emphatically, and he tried to tell the new members of the group with a look that there’d be no comments about Jim’s (or anyone’s) manhood in this space. That macho crap had to be left at the door.

“So it’s getting late, and we’re grabbing a bite at this diner on our way to the airport, and next thing I know, I’ve got my mom by the elbow and I’m yanking her under the table with me.

“I thought somebody had a gun. I was so scared, all I wanted to do was protect her. But it turns out it was a holiday weekend in Canada, and some kids were just lighting up mini firecrackers in the parking lot.”

Around Jim, the other veterans were nodding. They’d been there.

“Fireworks are kind of like taxes,” Sam said. But before he could finish his thought, his pocket buzzed. He groped for the phone he was sure he turned off and killed the noise.

“Sorry about that,” Sam muttered, embarrassed. “What I was trying to say was that fireworks are inevitable, and they suck. But knowing they’re coming and knowing they suck is half the battle. We can plan for them. Does anybody have any strategies they’ve found for getting through the fourth of July?”

As Betty started talking, Sam snuck a glance down at his phone, now on silent, and saw that his caller had been none other than Mr. Fourth of July himself. That probably meant it was serious; Steve knew better than to call on Tuesday evenings. Sam hesitated, wondering if he should duck out and phone him back. But there wasn’t much time left in the session, so, with a silent apology, Sam decided it would have to wait. He turned his attention back to the group, and listened as the vets told stories they could all relate to.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, he was walking out with June, taking his time, so she didn’t feel inadequate due to her injury, and he saw two uniformed police officers outside his office door. His heart stuttered, but he tried to keep calm as he told June to take care, that he’d see her next week.

“Sam Wilson?” asked one of the officers as he approached.

“Yeah. What happened?” Sam replied, hoping to cut the polite stuff and get straight to the bad news. He braced for the worst: car accident, explosion, alien invasion — life with Steve was weird sometimes.

But instead the burly male cop informed him that they’d had 911 calls about an attack at a grocery store over on Water Street. Sam felt his eyebrows shoot up, and he was just about to ask what the hell this had to do with him when the other officer jumped in, adding that there’d been unconfirmed reports that Captain America was involved in the fighting.

“Nobody seems to know how it started. We don’t think there are any civilians in there, but we can't be sure,” the officer concluded. She was a tall woman with an angular jaw who reminded Sam of Maria Hill. “We didn’t want to get too close in case it’s, uh...”

“An Avengers thing?” Sam finished.

“Well, yes. And besides Captain Rogers, you’re—”

“I’m it for DC. Got it.” He unlocked his office door and grabbed a pen and notepad from his desk. He scribbled down his comm frequency and handed it to the woman. “I’ll let you know when I’m in range. Ten minutes, tops.”

The officer took the slip of paper, but she and her partner exchanged a startled look.

“Um, don’t you need a ride?” asked the male cop.

Sam just looked at him. Understanding dawned in their faces, followed by awe, and then Sam was ushering them out the door and locking it behind them. He opened the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and, from under a pile of bogus paperwork, pulled out the fancy gizmo Tony had made for him. Four beeps and the code was in: the bookshelf behind him slid open, revealing a shallow alcove containing his dark grey wings. Sam never would have imagined his life could be so 007, but he figured that was what he got for working with the Avengers while keeping a day job.

He carried the wing pack out of his office in its non-descript black duffle, glad that his session was the last of the day since the building was more or less empty now, and took the elevator up to the roof. Sam hadn’t actually tried this pair yet; Tony had insisted on making him a back-up for his office in case of emergency, and Sam made a mental note to thank that crazy billionaire the next time he saw him. He went through the prep checklist and pulled on his goggles, scanning for air traffic and wind velocity. Then, he was flying.

En route, he tried contacting Steve, but no dice. Sam read that as a bad sign. He coaxed a little more speed out of his wings, took advantage of a few strong updrafts, and reached the grocery store in under six minutes. Sam was grateful it was getting dark as he circled down and landed on the flat roof; the store was already surrounded by cop cars and a crowd of people, including a couple of TV trucks.

He tuned in to the frequency he gave the police. “This is Wilson. I’m on the roof.”

“Solid copy,” came the immediate reply.

“I’m going in. Hold your position.”

“Yes, Sir.”

That threw Sam for a slight loop — he’d gotten used to people calling Steve “Sir” when they were in the field — but he shook it off and headed for the access door. It had only a flimsy lock, and once he’d broken it, he moved, fast and quiet, down the metal stairs, setting his goggles to scan for heat signatures. He picked up two, roughly a hundred feet away and blurry with speed.

“No civilians, but keep holding,” Sam reported, pitching his voice low. “Going dark.”

“Copy that. Radio silence.”

The door at the base of the stairwell led to a storage room. He hurried through the narrow aisles toward a set of swinging doors. They opened behind the deli counter, and all around him, Sam could see signs of a daily routine interrupted. There was a hunk of cheese in the slicer, the cooler door hung half-open, and a mop lay across the floor, clearly abandoned when whatever went down there started.

He stayed crouched, even though the fighters were still on the other side of the store. He could now hear sounds of the fight — muffled grunts and breaking shelves — so it took him a few seconds to realize what he wasn’t hearing. No gunfire, which was good, but no vibranium clanging, either.

He zoomed in as best he could with the thermal vision and watched closely. He couldn’t see the shield, which wasn’t that unusual, since it wouldn’t be giving off much heat, but it didn’t look like one of the figures was throwing or catching anything, either. Sam had the sudden thought that maybe Steve wasn’t here, that him being incommunicado was just a coincidence, that the folks who’d called 911 had been imagining things.

Sam took a deep breath and forced himself to exhale slowly. Steve or no Steve, he had to get closer. He stayed low as he made his way out from behind the counter and into the demolished bakery section. Toppled metal racks spilled baguettes and rolls; freestanding wooden shelves had become little more than kindling; squashed bags of bread were scattered everywhere; and crumbs slipped under Sam’s shoes with every step.

He was closing in on the fighters now. They were in a frozen food aisle by the looks of it, their red-hot signatures reflecting off the glass so many times it hurt Sam’s eyes, and he had to turn the thermal sensor off. He stayed flush to an ice cream cooler and rounded it just in time to see Steve, sans uniform, go crashing through a Doritos display at the opposite end of the aisle. The sight, along with the eruption of crinkling and popping sounds, was almost comical, but Sam didn’t react because Steve’s combatant was only a dozen feet in front of him with his back turned.

Steve’s eyes flashed on Sam as he got to his feet, taking his time and making a lot of noise. He started talking, but Sam was pumped so full of adrenaline he couldn’t make out what Steve was saying. It didn’t matter, Sam knew the plan: Steve was the diversion. Sam moved silently, got close enough to grab the guy, a surprisingly little guy wearing jeans, a hoodie, and a ball cap, when—

—Bucky turned and grabbed him by the throat with his gloved metal hand. Sam had just enough time to realize that this wasn’t Bucky — this was the goddamned Winter Soldier — before the grip on his throat tightened and the soldier muttered something in Russian.

Sam choked, but instinct and training took over. He twitched his shoulder blades, the wings unfolded smoothly — _thank you, Stark_ — and he headed for the high, open ceiling. Bucky’s grip didn’t loosen, but Sam leaned back, flying almost belly-up, dragging Bucky by the arm until his head hit a rafter, and his metal fingers eased up a little. Sam could breathe again. He kicked out: his foot knocked Bucky square in the chest, causing him to release Sam completely, and Sam watched as Bucky’s lower back hit the rafter his head had just gotten so acquainted with. He flipped over it and started to fall headfirst toward the concrete floor.

“Shit,” Sam muttered. He angled down and put on a burst of speed, hoping to snag Bucky or at least turn him around, but Steve had positioned himself under them and jumped straight up, grabbing Bucky before his head hit the floor. Steve gathered him up in his arms, and Sam had a flash of _it’s over_ but then he saw what Steve was doing: flipping Bucky, pinning him, holding that lethal metal arm down with his right knee and pressing his left forearm to Bucky’s throat, waiting for him to pass out. Sam hit the floor and waited, too, coiled and ready in case Bucky got loose.

After a minute, Bucky stopped thrashing, and Steve rolled him on to his stomach. He pulled out the heavy restraints he always carried but had never yet had to use and cuffed Bucky. Then he sighed, his shoulders sagging, and Sam knew it was really over.

He switched off his communicator, then extended a hand and hauled Steve to his feet. Steve didn’t need the help, but Sam knew he’d appreciate the contact, so he held on to Steve’s hand a little longer than was strictly necessary. Steve had a black eye coming up and his nose was bloodied, but mostly he just seemed tired.

“You all right? He hurt you?” Sam asked.

“I’m good,” Steve replied immediately.

Sam nodded. He knew that was far from the truth, but he wasn’t going to push it.

Steve’s eyes danced over him, checking for injuries. “You?”

Sam touched his tender throat cautiously. “Just bruises. What the hell happened, man?”

Steve shook his head, looking completely baffled. “I don’t know. He was fine, everything was fine. He wanted to get out of the house. But we got here, and it was like a switch went off. Maybe he heard something? A code word? It all happened so fast.”

A memory lit up some switchboards in Sam’s brain. “I might know,” he said grimly. “But we don’t have time to go through it right now. He won’t be out long.”

“Never is,” Steve muttered.

“So you get him out of here before he wakes up, and I’ll deal with John Q. Public.”

Steve nodded and pulled Bucky into a fireman’s carry. “Thanks. Is there a back door?”

Sam walked with him to the loading bay and scanned the area outside with his thermal sensor. There didn’t seem to be any paparazzi or police back there.

“You’re clear,” he said. “I’ll be home soon as I can. Don’t talk about it. Wait for me.”

He kissed Steve before he could protest, then held the door open. Steve made a break for his truck, which he had, as usual, parked out back. He covered Bucky up in the backseat of the extended cab and pulled on a baseball hat and glasses before starting the vehicle and leaving the parking lot via a side street. Sam watched until the truck was out of sight before flicking his comm array back on and heading for the front doors.

“Area secured,” he announced. “Coming out the front.”

The automatic doors slid open like nothing had changed. And that, Sam remembered, was part of the problem.

* * *

Sam followed the plan that he and Steve and Tony had laid out in case something like this happened: he said little to the cops until he saw their recordings of witness statements. These then formed the basis of his incident report. As Tony put it, people liked to be right, so Sam just had to give them what they wanted.

He confirmed that an unknown man (best described as “pretty but in a scruffy kind of way”) had attacked Captain America for no obvious reason (“He was just getting some groceries, man, like a regular dude!”). Sam agreed that Captain America had then told the customers to “GTFO,” as one witness put it, “so he could kick the Russian guy’s ass all the way back to Moscow or some shit.” No one, it seemed, had noticed the metal hand or recognized Bucky’s face, and, for the first time ever, Sam was glad Bucky slipped into Russian when he got agitated.

Sam promised the police that the attacker was in the custody of Captain America and that the Avengers would be in touch once they’d determined his motives and assessed his threat level. Tony might have to do some legal finagling later, but that was his job when he wasn’t otherwise occupied building things or blowing things up.

Despite what he’d said to Steve about getting home ASAP, Sam took his time getting back to his office. He needed to. He caught an updraft, then folded his wings, tucked into a rolling free fall and reopened them, swooping down till his toes brushed a low rooftop. Then he headed up to do it all over again. It was good practice, and the maneuvers required his full concentration. Thinking about flying was better than worrying about Bucky or remembering the last time he’d felt that much adrenaline in a grocery store or berating himself for not warning Steve about the little things.

Like bread and peanut butter.

When Sam had finally traded his wings for his wheels, he called Tony hands-free. Tony was a bit miffed, as Sam had figured he would be, but he was glad no one had recognized Bucky. The location and identity of the Winter Soldier was one secret even Tony _I am Iron Man_ Stark kept close to the vest.

“All right,” Tony said at last, in that voice that told Sam the conversation was already over. “I’ll get my people started on a press release. Tell Cap to get a statement ready, just in case.”

“Will do.”

“Oh, and Wilson? Take care of your boyfriend. I hope you don’t mind me saying, he’s been looking like he’s ready to drop. Easter’s coming up, maybe you should put on some rabbit ears, smother yourself in carrot cake, let him—”

“ _Goodbye_ , Tony.”

* * *

When Sam got home, he stood at the entrance to the living room for a few seconds before entering. Steve was on the couch with Bucky’s head touching his thigh, seemingly asleep. Steve held a book in his right hand, his left resting on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hi,” Sam said.

Steve looked up. “Hey,” he answered softly.

At Steve’s voice, Bucky’s eyes snapped open. He sat up and slid quickly to the other side of the couch as Sam stepped into the room.

“It’s okay, it’s just me,” Sam said. “Are you all right?”

Bucky’s voice was creaky, but he spoke English at least. “Yes. I’m sorry about what happened.”

“I know,” Sam replied. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He headed to the couch and sat between Steve and Bucky, facing straight ahead because it was easier for Bucky to talk when he wasn’t being looked at. “What do you remember?”

Steve made a move, a tiny shift like he wanted to jump in, but Sam shot him a glance, and he went still.

In Sam’s peripheral vision, Bucky’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “Not much,” he answered after a moment.

Sam spoke carefully. “Do you think you got overwhelmed?”

Bucky remained stationary, silent.

Sam bit his lip. It was now or never, he decided. “The first time I went into a grocery store after I lost my wingman, I had a panic attack. Right in front of the peanut butter.”

It was enough of an opening; Bucky’s head turned, and Sam got a glimpse of his eyes behind his hair before he looked sharply away. “Did you hurt anyone?”

“Almost,” Sam admitted quietly.

He swallowed hard. Even after three years, the panic still felt like a near threat, like if he thought about it too much, he’d set it off again, that his heart would become a desperate moth trapped in the center of his chest, his lungs would tighten, his memories of the smoke, of Riley’s scream, would collide with the present again and give him that nightmare feeling of helplessness, of being faced with the impossible task of going on — of buying peanut butter under fluorescent lights surrounded by people who didn’t know, who’d never know, who bought peanut butter every week and didn’t care that Sam never got to ask if Riley liked crunchy or smooth.

Steve put his hand on Sam’s wrist, drawing him back.

“I don’t remember much either,” Sam went on after a few deep, slow breaths. “But apparently I screamed at some lady. Freaked her out. Cops came, and I spent half the night in prison before my CO could smooth things over.”

Bucky was still clenching his jaw, but his eyes had fallen shut.

Sam shook his head, hoping the words would come out right. “Grocery stores are... tough, man. They’re a space where everything’s normal, where there’s a lot of everything, and it’s all about choice. I remember thinking that there was no point, that my choices wouldn’t matter because Riley was gone, but I still had to choose.”

“I hate that feeling,” Steve mumbled.

“We had nothing,” Bucky said after a short silence. Sam knew he wasn’t talking to him. “One loaf a week.”

In that delicate tone that Sam had heard a lot of over the last little while, Steve said, “That’s right, Buck. Only one.”

Bucky kept his eyes closed, but he tilted his head toward Steve and Sam. “We stole more, didn’t we? When the girls were hungry.”

“Yes,” Steve affirmed.

“You were good at that,” Bucky continued. “Fast. Small.” And he added another word in Russian.

Steve’s hand tightened on Sam’s arm, but a second later Bucky opened his eyes and said, “Sorry. Nimble.”

“Yes,” Steve said again, the relief evident in his voice.

Bucky stood. “I’d like to rest now,” he said, and he went to his room without another word.

Steve turned to face Sam once the bedroom door clicked shut. He sighed. “Sam, that, uh. That couldn’t have been easy, talking about the past. Are you all right?”

Sam smiled faintly at Steve’s effort to adopt what he called 'therapy talk'. He was getting better at it. “Yeah. Thanks for asking.”

Steve nodded and lowered his eyes to the couch, the small space between them. “I’m sorry. For everything. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. Not when you’ve got your own—”

“Hey,” Sam interrupted. “We’ve all got baggage. And I chose this path, remember?”

“I know. But it feels unfair to you.”

Sam hesitated, the easy reassurance dying on his lips. He couldn’t deny that his life had been a lot more complicated since he and Steve caught the ghost they were tracking. He also couldn’t deny that he felt like a caregiver sometimes, but Steve did, too. They looked out for one another, they had each other’s back. Even if Steve wasn’t so good with the talking part.

“Let me worry about that for now,” Sam said at last. “Are you okay?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I’m exhausted.”

Steve lifted his head up, and Sam touched the bruises that were already almost healed. “I know, baby.”

“It’s been three months,” Steve added, and Sam could hear every painful minute in his voice. “I thought he was getting better.”

“He is. He’s come a long way.”

“But there’s just so far to go.”

Steve’s flat voice was a reminder that the line had become something of a mantra the last little while, but Sam couldn’t argue with the sentiment.

“You have to be patient. Unfortunately. I know that’s not something you’re good at.”

Steve ducked his head again, a small smile playing at his lips. “Not really, no.”

“Well, keep trying.”

Steve took Sam’s hand and held it tightly, staring in the direction of Bucky’s room. After a moment, he said in a low voice, “We’re talking about this like it’s a recovering soldier thing. But what it’s not? What if it’s a brainwashing thing?”

A chill ran through Sam at the thought. He forced himself to breathe, to think it through, before speaking.

“If it is, we’ll deal,” he said firmly after a moment. “I doubt it, though. All our intel says HYDRA thinks he’s dead, and even if somebody knew he was alive, the odds of there being an agent in that store at that time when you weren’t even planning to be there...”

“Pretty slim,” Steve finished, and he sounded more confident.

“Plus, think about it: if they found him, they’d probably kill him or capture him, not trigger him.”

“True. I mean, they of all people would know how dangerous—”

“Yeah,” Sam finished quickly. He wasn’t ready to start worrying about that; his head was full enough at the moment. He ran his thumb over the back of Steve’s hand, focused on the feeling to ground himself in the here and now until the threat of panic had faded again.

“Maybe we should check the security footage,” Steve mused. “Cover our bases.”

“Not a bad idea,” Sam replied.

Steve turned back to him with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So. Next time he wants to get out of the house, try the dog park?”

Sam’s answering grin sat uneasy on his lips. “Yeah. We’ll all go.”

They stayed beside each other, their hands clasped, and listened to the silence on the other side of Bucky’s door.


End file.
